


Animus Anima

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Molly Mary Anthea and Sally as you've not seen them before, Sort of cross over with his dark materials universe, Soulmate AU, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28102500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Everyone has a manifestation of their deepest self as an animal, and somewhere, everyone has a soulmate. It's just a case of finding them.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 132





	Animus Anima

**Author's Note:**

> Had this one knocking around for a while, and finally finished it off. It's a curious one, and a little bit silly (although I make no excuses for making John's animus a hedghog!), and I'm not sure where it came from. It's a dark materials inspired fic, but doesn't really fit in there. It is definitely an AU. This one is a one shot.

“A bee?” The indignant shout reverberated around the house and Mycroft winced. The insistent buzzing noise didn’t help either. A rather large (fist-sized) fluffy bumble bee was hovering over his little brother’s head, doing it’s best not to look dejected while also trying to alight on Sherlock’s shoulder, which he was having none of and kept trying to brush it away.

“Yes, little brother, a bee. There is no point protesting, you have no control over this…”

“Bees are lame! All they do is sting!” 

“Bees are not lame…” Mycroft countered. “Do your research, Sherlock. Bees are essential. _Essential_ , you hear? They pollinate our crops and they make honey, you sweet-toothed little monster. They are essential just as you are essential.”

“Oh, please. Sentiment?” 

“Sherlock, please. You know your loss would quite frankly break my heart…”

“What on earth am I to do with that?” Mycroft watched his little brother stomp off, the bee trailing behind him hopefully. 

Mycroft was in no mood to cope with his younger brother’s tantrums. One’s animus was not under one’s control, any more than one’s chosen soulmate… He sighed. Look at what happened to the other one… His sister Eurus had the unenviable record as being the only person to date to actually kill her animus and survive. The rat had come to her very early, and she had simply been curious as to whether she could remove it. She was now certified insane and in a _very_ secure mental institution. It was no surprise her soulmate was James Moriarty. They apparently shared a hospital room, although by all counts James’ viper always looked lonely…

There was a dignity to his own animus, although the small owl looked faintly ridiculous on Mycroft’s shoulder, especially when she fluffed up indignantly. She also managed to make herself taller, and very thin, and she could narrow her eyes to look dramatically over one shoulder. Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, had an owl as her animus, and owls in general were respected and liked. Anthea was a good companion too, but had a mind of her own. They had not yet found their soulmate, and Mycroft was quietly despairing that he ever would. 

It had taken a while for Sherlock to accept Molly. He researched bees religiously from that point on and concluded that actually they were not so bad, even, as his brother had suggested, essential. Surprisingly, Molly took to riding in his hair, her antennae sticking out making it look like Sherlock was part bee himself. 

John Watson returned from his soldiering in Afghanistan with a badly wounded shoulder and an animus that wouldn’t leave his side. Mary wasn’t happy unless she was sitting in his pocket (which made for a prickly ride, considering she was a hedgehog) or his hand, being closely held to his chest. Clingy didn’t begin to describe it. Mary had been adventurous until John had been injured, and now she wouldn’t let him do anything more than his exercises and his blog. Not that that was going very well. Nothing ever happened to either of them.

Greg Lestrade and his wife were not soulmates and everyone had warned him it might not work but he was frankly sick of waiting for this so-called soulmate to materialise. His fox got on well with her rabbit, even though it was a bit of a mismatch, and they managed nearly twenty years of reasonable marital harmony, even if it was a bit rocky now and again. Eventually though their relationship failed, which proved everyone right, when her rabbit found Barry’s hamster a couple of years ago. _Hamster? Really?_ Sal had been disparaging about it and when the divorce had eventually come through they had spent an evening getting drunk and laughing about the ridiculousness of a rabbit and a hamster in domestic bliss. Yet that was how it was sometimes. You never knew when it would hit you. 

When Mycroft did meet his match it was like a bolt out of the blue. Sherlock had invented his career as the world’s only consulting detective, forging a life for himself with the help of one Gregory Lestrade, a Detective Inspector at the Met Police in London. For a while there, Mycroft had wondered if Molly, and Lestrade’s own Animus, Sal, would also forge a bond but it didn’t happen, and then John Watson had stumbled on the scene. Molly had clapped eyes on Mary and that was that. Bond forged. 

Anthea was restless on his shoulder as he surveyed the aftermath of Sherlock and John’s first crime scene together. The night was dark around them, and wet, and it was obvious to a blind man that it was John who had shot the cabby and rescued his soulmate before the stupid man could take the pill. Molly had buzzed about her human’s head but it hadn’t been quite enough to deter him, although it had been the distraction John had needed in order to get Sherlock out of the line of fire so he could take the shot. 

Blue lights strobed in the wet darkness; lights around them flickered in the puddles on the street. Sherlock had shrugged off his shock blanket, and he and John had walked off into the night together, bonded, Molly riding on John’s shoulder, Mary clinging to Sherlock’s curls. _There is a strangely ridiculous feel to everything, really,_ Mycroft thought, sheltering under his ever-present umbrella. _What brings the human race to this unpredictable linking with one’s deeper self manifested as an animal with another?_ It was all too hit and miss for his taste. 

“Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft turned. _Ah yes, the inspector with the silver hair._ They hadn’t met before that night. _Aging in a very attractive way too._ “Inspector Lestrade, I presume? Good evening.”

“Yes...I…” 

There was a silence that seemed to stretch into the night as their eyes met. Anthea hooted softly in his ear. Sal yipped once and fell quiet, her eyes on Anthea’s.

“No, really?” Lestrade murmured, his gaze locked on ocean blue eyes. 

“I…” Mycroft was lost in those soft brown eyes the colour of chocolate. He had a sudden desire to rake his fingers through the soft silver strands of the man’s hair, to claim him as his own. Anthea hooted happily and launched to land on Sally’s back. 

*Really? The Freak’s brother?* she said in Greg’s head.

Greg laughed, joyful and relieved and surprised, and had the urge to gather the man in his arms, to bring that haughty expression some peace and comfort. 

“Who’d have thought,” he said, grinning. 

“Who indeed?” Mycroft added, wanting to step closer but not daring. So Lestrade did it for him, closing the gap between them. 

“You and me? Really?” Lestrade commented, reaching out to stroke gloved fingers under Mycroft’s lapel. 

“It would seem so.” Mycroft could not believe it, not really, not after all this time. “But why now, I have no idea.” 

“Well, those two seem to have decided,” Greg said, glancing down at the fox and the owl snuggling together. “Looks like we have very little say in the matter…” Their eyes met again, and words were useless, really. Mycroft’s eyes were soft in the streetlight and Anthea hooted softly and flew up to Lestrade’s shoulder. She nuzzled into his neck affectionately. He reached up and stroked her feathers, cupping her in a warm protective hand. A soft yip had Mycroft staring down at Sal, who had moved to sit on his feet. Her black tipped ears were tilted forward. The fox was looking up at him longingly, her chin against his leg. He reached down and scratched the soft ears, and the fox’ eyes closed in bliss. Mycroft smiled indulgently, and that, as they say, was that, their bond forged in the London downpour, across a crowded crime scene. 


End file.
